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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24523465">and drive such lonely thoughts from your mind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division'>subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, A Smidgen of Smut, Canon-Typical Injury, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Over-Use and Abuse of Italics, Possessive!John, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock's inner monologue, Shmoop, Three Garridebs Moment, Unrepentant Fluff, did I say fluff?!, sherlock POV, this is absolutely plotless, what is this? a drabble? a ficlet? we just don't know</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:48:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24523465</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“<em>So,” John says, sounding breathless. His eyes are dark and his cheeks are pink, and Sherlock thinks he might be a little bit in love. His own body is entirely too warm to be normal. Is he getting a fever? God, he hopes not. This would be the worst possible time. “So,” John says again. “I know you’re married to your work and this isn’t your area. But. I was thinking, maybe you could re-evaluate that.”</em></p><p>  <em>“Re-evaluate,” Sherlock repeats, in a strangled sort of voice.</em></p><p> <em>John tilts his head, licks his lips. “If you’re amenable.”</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or: Five times John kissed Sherlock, and one time Sherlock kissed John.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>440</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and drive such lonely thoughts from your mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>honestly, there are a LOT more than 6 kisses, and this is less of a fic and more of a string of only vaguely connected scenes, but I am hoping that won't pose an issue?</p><p>let me know what you think!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I</p><p>Everyone remembers their first kiss.</p><p>Sherlock is no exception.</p><p>His first kiss was from Henry Williams when he was sixteen years old. Pressed up against a desk in an empty classroom, his wrist clasped tightly in Henry’s hand as though Henry were afraid he would run away.</p><p>Henry kisses him with a lot of tongue; is clumsy and inexpert, and bites his bottom lip when Sherlock squirms. It stings.</p><p>Afterward (it lasts approximately 9.42 seconds) he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, while Sherlock is still clutching on to the desk. His lips are buzzing, his heart pounds uncomfortably under his ribs, and he feels a little dizzy. Is this what kissing is? It’s horrible. Too wet. Too messy. Too much. Henry tells him he kisses like a virgin. Technically accurate, although Sherlock can tell it’s supposed to make him feel ashamed.</p><p>“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he orders after that, and Sherlock doesn’t have to hear the unspoken threat to know it’s there. Don’t tell anyone, or you’re dead. Don’t tell anyone, because I’m not queer, and even if I was, I wouldn’t touch you.</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t tell anyone, because he doesn’t want to get his jaw broken. Mummy makes such a fuss.</p><p>He manages, with a great deal of effort, to not be in an empty room with Henry Williams again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He knows, of course, logically, that a first kiss happens only once. By the very definition of the word, there can only be one of those. Sherlock is thirty-four years old when an army doctor by the name of John Watson-a man with one hand on a walking stick and the other on the trigger of a British Army Browning L9A1-kisses him. And for the rest of his life, he considers that his first kiss. Because when it happens, Sherlock knows for sure that he has been ruined for everyone else.</p><p>John is remarkable, right from his neat military cut hair to the tips of his sensible shoes. He doesn’t look at Sherlock like he is a freak. He calls him ‘extraordinary’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’ and over the years Sherlock becomes used to having a fond, warm audience for all his deductions. (Yes, some of them are met with a stern eyed look and a <em> bit not good </em>, but the rest of the time, John says nice things)</p><p>They’re leaning against the wall of the foyer, laughing like schoolboys, Sherlock’s chest expanding like a hot air balloon. He hasn’t laughed like this in years. And neither has John. He knows this because he had read John’s sadness, his hopelessness right off the lines of his face when he’d first laid eyes on him</p><p>(And he’d thought, god but you’re so absolutely <em> perfect </em> for me, how did I find you?)</p><p>The next moment John twists his body, Sherlock can feel it happening a second before it actually does: John is in front of him, standing on his tiptoes, his hands cup around his elbows, his lips find Sherlock’s. It’s soft. Chaste, almost. Just the driest brush of skin. Sherlock’s laughter catches in his throat and he sighs instead, his lips parting of their own accord, as though instinct has simply taken over with the first touch of John’s mouth. As if his body has decided by itself to open itself up for him.</p><p><em> Oh </em> . Oh, <em> god </em> . John Watson is <em> kissing </em> him. Sherlock hasn’t kissed anyone properly in years, he has no idea what he’s supposed to do, so he just stands there, still. Like a statue. Is John inebriated? No, they didn’t drink any alcohol at Angelo’s. Well, he didn’t. He never drinks when he’s on a case. Or eats.</p><p>
  <em> John Watson is kissing him. </em>
</p><p>And before he can reciprocate, open his mouth, cup John’s face in his hands, pull him closer- his lips leave his mouth. Devastating, that.</p><p>“So,” John says, sounding breathless. His eyes are dark and his cheeks are pink, and Sherlock thinks he might be a little bit in love. His own body is entirely too warm to be normal. Is he getting a fever? God, he hopes not. This would be the worst possible time. “So,” John says again. “I know you’re married to your work and this isn’t your area. But. I was thinking, maybe you could re-evaluate that.”</p><p>“Re-evaluate,” Sherlock repeats in a strangled sort of voice.</p><p>John tilts his head, licks his lips. “If you’re amenable.”</p><p>“I am amenable,” Sherlock tells him, and then fists his hands into John’s jumper, pulls him up, and kisses him again. It’s much better this time, because this time John prises his mouth open and his tongue licks into his mouth. John’s kisses are exactly like him: competent, focused, and just the right amount of filthy.</p><p>So. In short: Sherlock’s first kiss is with a blue-eyed army doctor with a penchant for dangerous situations and tall, pale-skinned, awkward detectives, right in the foyer of 221B.</p><p>***</p><p>II</p><p>Fact: Medical conferences are <em> awful. </em></p><p>Fact: John is lying when he tells him he loves him because if you really do love me, John, why are you always going on <em> medical conferences </em></p><p>Fact: Sherlock is going to go insane.</p><p>He leaves for unforgivably long periods of time (the last time it was two days- <em> two days </em> !) and Sherlock, who in general is an unpleasant person to be around, becomes downright villainous when John isn’t there. Ms Hudson tuts and calls him a “poor dear” and keeps making him tea because she thinks tea will somehow improve this situation of there being <em> no John. </em> And she always gives him the wrong kinds of biscuit. Lestrade looks at him pityingly when he tears apart a young officer who had the audacity to tell Sherlock that he was wrong about something.</p><p>Sherlock does little else for the entire week but play the violin horribly and make things explode in the kitchen.</p><p>John calls him every night, and those are his favourite bits. Even though he just glowers at the empty sitting room and listens while John tells him about all the breakthrough medical research they’re doing. <em> Be supportive </em>, that’s a dear, Ms Hudson mouths at him from John’s armchair, and he rolls his eyes.</p><p>Right before he hangs up, John says <em> I love you. </em> Sherlock grunts something at him, which may or may not be <em> I love you too </em>. Then he disconnects the call. Sherlock feels like setting something on fire. So he goes to the kitchen and proceeds to do that.</p><p>“Could you please not burn down our flat,” John tells him over the phone the next morning after Ms Hudson spends ten minutes complaining about this. “She’s going to kick us out.”</p><p>“Hardly,” Sherlock sniffs. “She’s like you. She’ll get terribly bored.”</p><p>***</p><p>The bed dips, a warm weight settles in behind him. Familiar arms around his middle. He’s dragged backward gently, until John has him pressed to his front, no space separating them. He presses his lips to the back of his neck, just underneath his curls.“Hello,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”</p><p>Sherlock makes a skeptical noise and remains curled up and rigid, staring at the opposite wall. “Did you.”</p><p>John’s fingers slip underneath his t-shirt, stroke at his skin. Sherlock wants to sulk a little more but that does feel rather lovely. “Yep. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”</p><p>“Mmm.”</p><p>“How long will you sulk?”</p><p>“For as long as I like.”</p><p>“Are you <em> sure </em> about that,” John teases, and his hands slip underneath his t-shirt, stroke at his skin. Sherlock shivers and groans in frustration, and then rolls over onto his other side. John’s lips just barely whisper over his forehead before Sherlock ducks and buries his face into the base of his throat, and then his sternum. “You’re an awful man,” he accuses.</p><p>John smells of day-old sweat and public transit. He’s still in his work clothes, jeans and jumper, and his leather jacket. Sherlock slots their legs together and breathes him in. Finally. He can finally breathe again, properly.</p><p>“Mycroft came to visit me,” he hisses into John’s jumper. “Said I was <em> lonely </em>. Can you imagine that? He tried to initiate a board game.”</p><p>John’s hand fits around the back of his head, gentle fingers stroke through his hair, blunt nails scratch against his scalp. “I take it you got very <em> bored </em>.”</p><p>Sherlock makes a noise of enormous disgust at that. “Your sense of humour continues to astound, John.”</p><p>“Ah, you love it.”</p><p>“And Lestrade came by with a box of cold cases. Of course, you’d say <em> well that was nice of him- </em>.”</p><p>“That <em> was </em>nice of him-”</p><p>“Please. A hideous display of pity, if I ever saw one.”</p><p>John chuckles softly above him. “Did you solve them?”</p><p>Sherlock hums. “Six out of twenty-one. You can help me with the rest.”</p><p>“Oh, am I back in your good graces now?”</p><p>“Shut up. And kiss me, you horrible, selfish bastard.”</p><p>He tips his head up, John swoops down to catch his lips obligingly, smug smile still in place.</p><p>It’s not a heated, passionate kiss. It’s not particularly chaste or delicate, either. John tastes like the coffee he had on the train and what is probably a cheese sandwich. His lips are a little chapped and they scrape against Sherlock’s uncomfortably. But it could be their first kiss all over again for the way relief floods his body. He hooks a leg over John’s hip, curls his fingers into the warm wool, opens his mouth against his tongue.</p><p>I missed you too, he tries to say, not in so many words. You have no idea how much.</p><p>John tells him, <em> I’m home, I’m back </em> when he presses their lips together. And Sherlock tries to get as close as possible and tell him, <em> yes, yes you are. </em></p><p>And of course, because it <em> has </em>been an unforgivably long period of time, the kiss tips from loving and sweet into something very desperate, and Sherlock reaches for John’s zipper.</p><p>“I really should take a shower,” John says, even as he grows harder at Sherlock’s touch.</p><p>“You’ll have to, in a bit,” Sherlock promises, and shoves his hands into his trousers.</p><p>“Ah, so you <em> did </em>miss me.”</p><p>Sherlock wraps a hand around him and John groans very gratifyingly.</p><p>“Shut up,” Sherlock mutters, but without any heat. And then John chuckles, and cups his jaw, and kisses him again.</p><p>***</p><p>III</p><p>John Watson is a jealous man.</p><p>Not <em> obviously </em>jealous, of course. Not the shouty kind, not at all. Not a particularly demanding partner, if you really get down to it.</p><p>But then; John doesn’t <em> need </em> to put a possessive hand on his waist, he doesn’t need to whisper threats into his ear. No, John just has to look at him and the reminder will be clear and unambiguous. <em> You’re mine. And don’t you forget it. </em></p><p>As if Sherlock could. As if Sherlock could look at any other person and think that they could possibly hold a candle to John. He doesn’t need the reminder, he doesn’t need the marks of John’s teeth against his skin (although those are really quite nice) because John owns him already. Entirely, heart and soul.</p><p>Still, a reminder is, well…a lovely change of pace.</p><p>Which is why the young lady at the bar who is currently touching Sherlock’s arm and smiling at him in a very obvious way- is not immediately rebuffed. Instead, he is very charming and laughs at all her awful jokes, and he doesn’t make any rude deductions (sleeping with her brother’s best friend, two dogs, a very loud snorer) and meanwhile he texts John from his mobile (in his pocket, he’s very dexterous) to hurry up.</p><p>Date Nights are always impromptu affairs, because Sherlock would much rather have dinner at home, on the sofa, and suck John off as dessert, but sometimes John likes to be wined and dined and romanced, and Sherlock never steps back from a challenge. The case was finished off in the very restaurant- someone was smuggling in drugs through the grocery service- and the owner had offered Sherlock a dinner for two in thanks, and Sherlock knew John had had his eye on this place for a while now.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> Come here, if convenient. </em>-SH</p>
  <p>
    <b>Ooooh are you asking me out? ;) ;)</b>
  </p>
  <p><em> Yes. </em>-SH</p>
  <p>
    <b>Is this for a case?</b>
  </p>
  <p><em> No. </em>-SH</p>
  <p>
    <b>So we’re genuinely going to have dinner in a nice restaurant?</b>
  </p>
  <p><em> Yes. - </em>SH</p>
  <p><em> Come quickly, please. </em>SH</p>
  <p><em> Wear a suit. The dove grey one, if you please. </em>SH</p>
  <p>
    <b>Someone’s BOSSY today.</b>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>Half an hour later and Sherlock’s cheeks are starting to hurt from all the roguish smiling, and the young lady- Alexandra? Cassandra? Cleopatra?- is getting more obvious with her advances by the minute. </p><p>He doesn’t have to endure it for much longer.</p><p>“Hello, there.”</p><p>Sherlock turns around, and there John is, right by his shoulder, looking up at him with a very feral gleam in his eye. Sherlock’s smile fades and is replaced by a bit of coy lip biting. “Hello, John.” John looks delectable. He loves John in his jumpers (although he’d be the last person to say it) but there’s just something about John in a suit that makes Sherlock want to do terribly ungentlemanly things to him. Well. More of that later, hopefully.</p><p>“Oh, sorry, do you two know each other?”</p><p>John’s gaze shifts to the woman, and his eyes darken. His smile becomes a little strained, more like a bearing of teeth. “Know? I should hope so.” And then John tugs at his arm, makes Sherlock turn to face him properly. Sherlock’s lip parts. John has a very salacious smirk on his face. Before he knows it, his hand is cupping the back of his neck, and he is being pushed down and John’s hot, wet mouth is pressing against his.</p><p>Message received, loud and clear: <em> Mine </em>. Everyone else can fuck right off.</p><p>Oh. <em> Oh </em>. Sherlock shivers against John, he reaches ineffectually for the front of his shirt, but the kiss is over far too soon. His lips feel swollen already. And his hairline is damp. And- ah. His trousers are a little tight. He’s barely aware of John speaking. He’s saying something to the woman and then dragging him away from the bar.</p><p>“Well. Did you have your fun?” John’s fingers lace between his.</p><p>“I.” Sherlock blinks rapidly. He’s supposed to have reserved a table. Or something.</p><p>“Don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing,” John mutters.</p><p>“Was just. Teasing.”</p><p>“Oh <em> teasing, </em>were we? Wait till we get home. I’ll tease you till you can barely remember your own name.”  </p><p>Bold of John to assume that wasn’t his plan <em> anyway.  </em></p><p>They find their reserved table, and they eat a really smashing dinner, and Sherlock orders the most expensive wine on the menu. They play footsie under the table like teenagers, and then they hold hands on the tabletop like an old married couple. (Which they technically are) John’s lips graze his knuckles.</p><p>“That thing you did. With that poor lady,” he says.</p><p>Sherlock licks chocolate pudding off his spoon rather suggestively. “Yes?”</p><p>John grins. “I like showing you off. See this sweet piece of arse you’re making eyes at? Yeah. He’s mine.”</p><p>Sherlock licks a bit of chocolate off the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I <em> know </em>.”</p><p>***</p><p>IV</p><p>“Sherlock,” John says, his mouth against Sherlock’s neck. Hot breath, the wet press of his tongue, right over his carotid artery.</p><p>“John,” Sherlock replies, trying to keep his voice level, even as he’s squirming on the sofa. This is unfair. This film was John’s idea. Sherlock hadn’t even wanted to watch it. He had wanted to watch the documentary he’d downloaded months ago on poisonous mould. But John had made that face, and said please, and Sherlock had relented.</p><p>And now John doesn’t seem to be in any mood to watch this film.</p><p>“Do you know how gorgeous you look,” John tells him, and when his teeth scrape over his jaw, a tiny whimper falls from Sherlock’s mouth. He squirms some more, and John’s palm glides over his thigh. Smooth and unhurried, it follows a leisurely pace, right until his hand is between his legs, fitting over his growing erection.</p><p>“Oh god,” Sherlock groans, throwing his head back against the sofa.</p><p>John sucks his earlobe into his mouth, licks at his neck, bites over his collarbone. He rubs him slowly through his pyjamas, until Sherlock is panting, open-mouthed, and achingly hard. John squeezes him gently, teasing- and Sherlock would shout at him and demand that he hurry up if he really is in the mood, only that he’s boneless and limp and not quite capable of complete sentences.</p><p>Something explodes on the television. John slips a hand underneath his pyjamas, wraps his hand around his cock, and Sherlock lets out a breathless moan. “Come here,” John orders him, voice low and deep. He fits a hand around Sherlock’s hip, coaxes him closer until Sherlock is spread over his lap. His palms curl over his ribs, and he drags him along his crotch possessively, as if to say, <em> feel that? That’s how you make me feel </em>. “I thought you wanted to watch the film,” Sherlock accuses him, but it doesn’t have the desired effect because John has his hand around his cock again, pumping it in his fist very determinedly. “You- ah- oh god-“</p><p>“I did want to watch the film,” John says lightly pressing the flat of his tongue against Sherlock’s jaw. And then his teeth pull at the shell of his ear. Sherlock’s breath hitches and his hips start moving in a greedy rhythm, his cock slipping in and out of John’s hand. “But then you were looking like a bloody masterpiece, and I felt like giving you a proper ravishing on the sofa.”</p><p>“Oh,” Sherlock whispers, as John’s thumb swipes over the head. “That sounds…good.”</p><p>“Yep, looked like you needed a proper seeing to.” John presses small kisses all over, his neck, his cheeks, his ears, his temple. And then, he cups his jaw with one hand, still wanking him off so gloriously, and presses their lips together.</p><p>Sherlock melts. There is no other word for it.</p><p>He goes soft under John’s mouth, as though John could have him any which way and he’d just let him. When John kisses him like this, it is always slow, and deep, and <em> deliciously </em> wet. Sherlock can never match his unhurried pace, the way John is so determined to make Sherlock like he’s being worshipped, he’s always too impatient, too greedy, always in a hurry to have John, have him right <em> now. </em></p><p>Soft bite on his bottom lip. John’s expert tongue, it’s been everywhere on his body but this is where he likes it best. He kisses him like he’s thinking of fucking Sherlock slowly open with his fingers.</p><p>“You have no idea, do you,” John breathes against his mouth. “What you do to me.”</p><p>Sherlock wants to say something filthy, he wants to reciprocate, but he’s not very good at this part. His previous attempts had been frankly ridiculous, and John had laughed, and Sherlock had forgiven him only because John had pulled him close afterward and said “I love you” so many times that Sherlock had to press his palm over his mouth to get him to stop.</p><p>“No,” he says, a little coquettishly. “No, tell me.”</p><p>“Why don’t I show you,” John smirks.</p><p>Sherlock feels wanted. That’s how John kisses him. Like he wants him, so desperately. Like he wants to burrow inside of him, never leave, find a home underneath his ribcage. John’s mouth touches his and heat courses through his body, pools in his groin, makes him tremble with desire and need. It’s like flicking a switch.</p><p>(Sex was just sex, before John. A momentary meeting of genitalia, a few minutes of deciding who puts what where, the carrying out of the action, hasty goodbyes afterward. Not with John. With John. <em> Hngh </em>. Sex is fucking transcendental.)</p><p>John fucks him on the sofa, just like he’d promised, Sherlock draped over one edge, teeth digging into the Union jack pillow. One arm pulled back in John’s grasp, pinned to the small of his back. His fingers scrabble for purchase against the arm of the sofa, making indents.</p><p>“Love you,” John says, voice rough with arousal, dropping a string of kisses up his spine. “Love you so much.” His thrusts are slow and deep and absolutely accurate, Sherlock begs and begs and spreads his legs wider but John takes his time, hands skimming over his ribs, knuckles grazing his cock only ever so lightly.</p><p>Sherlock moans into the pillow, lifts his head only to whisper, <em> “Please, </em>please, please-”</p><p>“Shush,” John says, teeth scraping over his shoulder blade. Sherlock keens in frustration but it’s still so good, because John draws it out and makes it last and brings him to the edge so many times only to drag him back. “Gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous, fucking perfect for me,” he croons, one hand cupped tight around his hip.</p><p>He comes with John’s hand on his cock and their lips pressed together. Sherlock flipped over onto his back, legs thrown over John’s shoulders, heels bouncing against his spine. This is how he likes it best, he can watch John’s mouth fall open when he spills inside of him, the way his cheeks flush scarlet.</p><p>Saliva intermingling, Sherlock’s fingers curled so tightly around John’s biceps. Tipping into orgasm so much like falling off a cliff.</p><p>“<em> John, </em> ” he whispers against his mouth, coming, still coming. <em> “John, John-” </em></p><p>***</p><p>V</p><p>Sometimes John kisses Sherlock not because he’s in the mood for a shag, or because he hasn’t touched him in a long time and desperately needs some affection, or even to stake a claim on him. Sometimes, John just <em> kisses </em>him for no reason at all.</p><p>He’ll sidle up next to him when Sherlock is bent over an experiment in the kitchen. He’ll ask, <em> what are you up to, then? </em> And Sherlock will mumble something under his breath or grunt out something unintelligible and John will just shrug and say, <em> well I’m off to bed. Come soon. </em>And kiss him on the shell of his ear.</p><p>They’ll be in bed, John lying next to him reading something and Sherlock will be on his back, wide awake, and he’ll sit up suddenly and shake John and say, <em> John, it was the brother! Remember the bottle of dye on the bathroom sink? His hair was bleached! Don’t you see? </em>And John will frown at him, and then he’ll smile, and kiss him on the corner of his mouth and say, “Let’s give Lestrade a call, then.”</p><p>Right before he leaves for work, and Sherlock is reading the newspaper at the table and searching for any mention of violent crimes. A kiss on top of his head. <em> Please get rid of the feet in the kitchen, Sherlock. I mean it this tim </em>e. And then he’ll be out the door.</p><p>During sex; his left eyebrow. His ankle. The backs of his knees. The top of his ear. Every time.</p><p>When it’s freezing and Sherlock is curled up on the sofa, one socked foot hanging off the edge. Reading some old issue of Cosmopolitan because he’s working a case for a fashion model. “It’s <em> research </em>, John.”</p><p> It’s just coincidence that he’s taking the <em> How Electrical Is Your Relationship? </em>Quiz</p><p>“If you say so,” John says, a hint of laughter in his voice. And then, “Are you wearing my jumper?”</p><p>Sherlock flips the page disinterestedly. <em> How willing are you to try new things in bed? A) I like to be surprised every day. B) I’ll try everything at least once. C) Only if there’s a lot of discussions beforehand. D) What’s wrong with missionary? </em></p><p>“It’s warm.”</p><p>John hovers over him, bending over the arm of the sofa where Sherlock has his head propped up. Sherlock has to roll his eyes back to look at him.</p><p>John taps his own chin with his index finger as though in deep thought. “Well, you should definitely mark A. No one likes to be surprised in bed as much as you. My hamstring is still sprained from the shower experiment, you know.”</p><p>“What? Stop looking!” Sherlock swats at him ineffectually with the magazine. John grins, catches his wrist, and presses a kiss to his forehead.</p><p>“Don’t worry love, I think it’s very sweet.”</p><p>And then he leaves. Sweet? Sweet? Sherlock is not sweet. Sherlock is devilishly handsome and dangerously seductive, and <em>sexy.</em> Sherlock is going to <em> show </em> him how sweet he is.</p><p>“You can be all of those things and still be sweet,” John tells him from the kitchen. Damn it. He’d said that out loud.</p><p>“And I'm waiting. For you to show me.”</p><p>Sherlock throws the magazine to the floor and flees to the kitchen.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>+I</p><p>Sherlock’s hands are covered in blood.</p><p>This is not a new occurrence. Sherlock is used to blood. Once he went on the tube covered in blood. He’s bled plenty himself. Scraped and bruises and stabbings, all part of the job, really. Injuries were common in his line of work, were they not?</p><p>Minutes ago, he’d heard the gunshot. Saw John stumble, fall over backward. Disarmed Garrideb, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, whacked him on the temple with the butt of his own gun, watched in satisfaction as he crumpled to the ground. Kicked him in the gut for good measure. The high was momentary, because the next moment he was kneeling next to John.</p><p>“John, John, are you hurt?- fuck, tell me you’re not-“</p><p>And then his eyes had fallen on the red stain on his jumper, steadily growing larger. Sherlock had felt faint, considered picking up the pistol and shooting the man who had done this. But that was irrelevant. First he had to- what should he do?</p><p>“Sherlock, it’s fine- just-“ John clenches his teeth and tries to sit up. Sherlock’s hands flutter about uselessly, unsure of what to do. He knows basic first aid. He knows it. He just has to search his mind palace-if only he could stop panicking because it’s paralysing him, this panic. But how can he not panic? John is shot. John is bleeding. This is his fucking fault, if only he’d been quicker, cleverer-</p><p>He tries to put a hand to the wound, press against it, that’s what you’re supposed to do right? But John hisses, and Sherlock pulls away immediately. And now his hands are covered in blood as well. John’s blood. The blood that is steadily leaking out of him with no intention of stopping.</p><p>“John, I don’t, oh God.. There’s- I don’t. I don’t know what to do. What do I do?” Sherlock’s hands are shaking. He tries to wipe them on his trousers. Blood smells awful, how has he never noticed that before? Metallic and disgusting and terrifying.</p><p>“Sherlock,” John says, firmly. Well, firmly for a man who is currently slumped against a wall and bleeding out of his stomach. One of his hands are pressed against the wound. It’s not helping. Sherlock can see blood seeping through the gaps between his fingers.</p><p>He feels sick. Why hadn’t that bastard shot him instead?</p><p>“Sherlock, hey. Look at me.” John grabs him by the collar of his Belstaff. Sherlock’s eyes drag to meet his, trance-like. His mouth feels frozen, even though the rest of his body is shaking. “Sherlock,” John says again, so authoritatively, even like this, and Sherlock meets his ocean blue gaze, the exact shade of which he can never commit to memory, despite so many years, and Sherlock thinks of how those eyes saw him, really saw him, past the cleverness and impressive little deductions and John had thought: <em> I’ll have that one </em>. And he thinks, I have seen life without you and it was awful. I was lonely and I didn’t even know I was lonely, not until you came and showed me how very lonely I was and I can never thank you enough for it, but you have to stay, so that I can at least try, because it will definitely take the rest of my life and possibly more.</p><p>He’s being so dramatic, why is he being so dramatic, John is going to be fine, but even so he grits out, in an awful, choked up voice, “Tell me what to do, please.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” John says comfortingly, “Calm down. Be calm alright? I need you to take off your scarf. Right. Yeah. Good. Now put it there- mm hmm, put pressure on the wound.”</p><p>Yes. He can do this. Sherlock can follow instructions. He balls up his navy blue scarf and presses it against the seeping hole in John’s abdomen and resolves to burn the scarf after John is home and safe and fixed up.</p><p>“There’s so much blood,” he says softly, in horror, because the scarf is wet and dark in seconds. “John, how can you possibly be losing so much blood?”</p><p>“Well, that’s to be expected, sweetheart. Don’t worry. Just keep pressure there. You’re doing so well.”</p><p>“I am?”</p><p>“Very good. You’d make a great nurse- ah.”</p><p>Sherlock’s heart lurches at the flash of discomfort on John’s face. His eyes flutter and he’s slumping even more against the brickwork, his face taking on an awful grayish tinge. “Does it hurt? It hurts, doesn’t it? Just- hold on. A little longer. Lestrade and the ambulance will be here soon.”</p><p>Please, please hold on John. Sherlock has to stay calm, because John told him to, and Sherlock will do whatever John wants, even though calm is the absolute last thing he’s feeling right now.</p><p>John nods, his breaths shallow and strained. “Sherlock,” he says, cold palm curving around the back of his neck and pushing him forward, closer. “I need you to do something for me.”</p><p>“You’re not dying, John, I’m sure it can wait,” Sherlock snaps.</p><p>John’s mouth pulls into a weak smile at that, and god Sherlock hates him! This is the man he has chosen to love, this frankly ridiculous man who is finding anything about this situation worth smiling at!</p><p>“I need you to keep me awake,” John tells him. “Because a kip is...” John grimaces, “sounding really fantastic to me now, but falling asleep would be a really awful idea.”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t know what possesses him to do it at that moment, but the only thing he can think of doing to fit that brief is to lean forward, cover the bit of distance between them and press his lips to John’s mouth. John makes a soft, surprised sound. Sherlock can taste copper and John’s lips are dry and chapped but he doesn’t care. This is like one of those ridiculous things they do in those films John makes him watch, the big romantic death bed scene - although what is romantic about death he doesn’t know- except this isn’t that, this is Sherlock telling him- do you have any idea how much I adore you, how much I absolutely cannot stand even the idea of being without you, don’t you fucking leave me now, you got shot in a hot desert miles and miles away and you somehow found your way to me, so don’t you dare, don’t you dare or I’ll kill you myself-</p><p>“Stay awake,” Sherlock says fiercely, furiously, against John’s cold mouth, leaning their foreheads together. “Don’t you dare go to sleep, John Watson.”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” John rasps. His chest is rising and falling rapidly now, and it must be so difficult to breathe and why isn’t anyone here yet, why-</p><p> </p><p>There! There, the sound of an ambulance, and oh, Sherlock has never been so positively relieved to hear police sirens. John meets his gaze and grins, lopsided and exhausted, and Sherlock feels a surge of something hot and fierce in his chest.</p><p>“You’re going to be absolutely fine,” he whispers. “Do you understand me? You’re going to be fine.”</p><p>“Course. Got you,” John slurs, and then slumps forward onto Sherlock’s shoulder, unconscious.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>A nurse tries to stop him, standing in front of the door with an arm stretched out. Quickly, as though Sherlock will barrel through her if she doesn’t.</p><p>“Oh no sir, family only.”</p><p>Sherlock controls the urge to verbally eviscerate her right there, despite the fact that he feels a sudden burning hatred for her, this woman who thinks she can prevent him, as though anything could stop him from seeing John at the moment. He’s already been quite patient enough while they plopped him onto an operating table and <em> touched him </em> and poked and prodded at him, he’d been patient because he knew this had to be done, but now John is out of surgery and Sherlock <em> will see him.  </em></p><p>“I am his <em> husband, </em>” he snarls, swiping his hand violently in front of her face so that the thin platinum band is clear and visible.</p><p>“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Oh, I am sorry, I’ll just-”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t wait to listen to whatever nonsense is bubbling out of her mouth now. He pushes through the door and his eyes immediately fall to John. He looks so terrifyingly <em> pale. </em>He’s fast asleep, and they said he needed to rest, and he’d wake up soon enough. So Sherlock curls up on the armchair next to the bed and doesn’t move at all for the next two days, not even when Mycroft comes in and tells him that John is recovering quite well from his surgery and doesn’t Sherlock think he should take a bath, at least?</p><p>Sherlock fusses about him, fluffing his pillows and running his fingers through his blonde-but-not-quite hair, and he waits and he waits and he <em> waits. </em> This is unbearable, why is John being so <em> annoying, </em> Sherlock is <em> bored </em>and if he doesn’t open his eyes soon Sherlock will start shooting the walls of this lovely, private hospital room that Mycroft had arranged for them.</p><p>His mind fixes on that horrible, disgusting, vile man who had shot John and he thinks: <em> you’re lucky he’s not dead, you’re lucky it’s just a gunshot wound, and this is bad enough, but if it was worse, you certainly would be. And it would be slow and excruciatingly painful. </em></p><p>And he thinks: one gun-shot wound is bad enough and now John has <em> two. </em>One had brought him home, to Sherlock, and what if this other one-</p><p>No. He’s being <em> ridiculous. </em>Stop that.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>And at the end of those two days, John opens his eyes, and Sherlock is the first thing he sees, which is exactly how Sherlock had wanted it. He is unshowered and unshaved and he must look absolutely frightful, but John’s mouth still curls up into a small, warm smile at the sight of him.</p><p>“John,” Sherlock whispers, and takes John’s smaller, cold hand in his and kisses his palm. “About time. I’ve missed you.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>He starts to say: We can’t do this anymore. What if you get hurt again? What if it’s <em> worse. </em>What if, what if, what if-</p><p>And John glares at him and grabs him by the front of his shirt, so strong, even after all the days in the hospital, even with a heavily wrapped and bandaged middle, and he whispers. <em> No. </em> This is our life, this is what we <em> do. </em> And one day it’ll be too much, I’m not an idiot, I know we can’t go racing over rooftops at eighty, but guess what? We’re not eighty yet. Too soon, you daft bugger. Don’t be a drama queen. And go take a shower, you smell <em> rank. </em></p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Afterward, Sherlock takes him home and makes him tea. Sherlock makes tea only ever so rarely mostly because of his general laziness and also the fact that tea just tastes better when it’s John’s.</p><p>He’s going to put on some stupid spy film and he’s going to curl up against John’s side, very slowly, very carefully because John is hurt, and most of the time John is stoic and tight-lipped so Sherlock has to be the one who understands, who gives John what he needs.</p><p>And Sherlock will say: there have been so many John-less years, they melt into a blur because they’re all irrelevant and forgettable and full of far too much emptiness and boredom. Hateful, dull years. But the John years, the ones that came after. Oh. Lovely. Those are the ones that matter. (Even those two horrible ones without him, because even then he knew that he was going back to him, and that was all that mattered)</p><p>Because now there is no more quiet, because now there is the sound of John cluttering about in the kitchen, and John tramping up the stairs and John complaining about the dead squirrel in the bath tub-</p><p>(Or maybe he won’t say it, because some things go without telling, and the best thing about John is that he doesn’t have to be told. John knows, always.)</p><p>But what he <em> will </em> do is kiss him. Slowly and carefully and gently because there will be time for feverish and desperate later. He’ll wash away the memory of that cold, coppery kiss, replace it with something better, warmer.</p><p>Something that says: it’s <em> you </em> , it’s always <em> you </em> , it’s only <em> ever </em> been you.</p><p>And: I will<em> always </em> bring you back, no matter what, I will never leave you behind because how could I ever learn to live life <em> without </em>you?</p><p>And: we take care of each other, you and I, and I’m being so ridiculous and sentimental and it’s all your fault, you made me this way, you devastatingly charming <em> idiot- </em></p><p>But mostly just :</p><p>
  <em> I love you. </em>
</p><p>***<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29025147">[Cover Art] for subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)'s 'and drive such lonely thoughts from your mind'</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidford/pseuds/cupidford">cupidford</a>
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